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A Prison Filled With Smoke

 I drew with a pencil that broke in the middle I drew with the shorter half that choked on the riddle I knew it was going to be harder to hide my fiddle I drew on top of a scar that had been ripped open too far I drew the stitches to cover the leakage in rage I made the lead to break I drew dark glasses to hide my eyes from lies that cover my face I drew empty classes where I teach freedom I knew no one would come and take the risk that it encompasses I drew the bucket  that has holes everywhere I drew the station that never sees a train only the pain of everything passing right through the empty tracks I drew a relation that is always in tension what should I say how should I pay what should I do not to stay I drew a blanket to cover my soul I drew a bullet to destroy the ghoul I knew someone will call me out I knew someone will shout I drew a chair where I can sit and think about being fair I drew a floor filled with gravity of good time smoke gathered around me suddenly, I ...

Traveler

I write about people I met..
About people whose eyes went wet.
About people who meant something.
About people who let go of everything.
I write about places I visit..
That talk to me.
That walk with me at every step.
That stalk me as I sleep..
That provoked me to find them no matter what.
I write about free spirits.
About the dancing street.
About the glaring little girl.
About the forest that fumes with fire.
About the mother who doesn’t sleep.
About the man who smokes to forget.
About morning that holds you.
About the night that folds you.

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